


A Ritual of Ages

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Death and Dying, Established Relationship, Grieving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 15:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: I really wanted to write some fluff today. Guess that didn't happen. Cheers for making myself cry instead.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

It gets harder every year to make the trip up the hill to the tiny graveyard next to the temple of Hestia in County Mayo, but even though Zolf’s legs are definitely not what they used to be (not whose they used to be, either) he still makes the trip.

He could get himself teleported directly to the grave, he supposes, but that would spoil the ritual of it, take something away from the experience. He can smile about it now, of course, thinking back. Could even hear Oscar’s voice in his mind, if he shut his eyes and let the memories flood it, the way they always do this time of year. 

_ Everything has to be difficult for you doesn’t it? _

_ Luckily with you around I don’t have to go out of my way to make it like that. _

His bones ache. The ones he still has, any way. He’s getting old, but he’s been getting old for nearly a century now and to be honest it’s something of a relief, to finally feel the age that everyone seems to expect him to be when they take in the white hair and the cane and the propensity to be a short tempered bastard at every opportunity. He’s comfortable like this. It suits him.

Wilde had grown old gracefully, in the end. The frost in his hair at the temples had given him a distinguished air, Zolf had always told him so, and he must have eventually believed him, because before he died he’d stopped prestigitating it away. 

He’d grown old gracefully, but he was a human, so he’d also done it quickly.

The weather is holding, which is a blessing Zolf doesn’t always get on these trips. A decade ago he wouldn’t have minded the rain. Now his joints protest at the slightest change in air pressure, and the hill is steep and he wants to be back in town before supper.

Wilde’s headstone isn’t ostentatious enough to stand out in the cemetery, but it is in his family’s plot. He’d asked to be laid next to his sister, a figure Zolf only knew from poems and wistful stories Oscar told next to the fire when he’d had too much brandy. They’d not talked about space for Zolf in that plot. It isn’t where Zolf belongs, in the end, no, because for all Poseidon is still not in the picture, there’s only one place Zolf wants to be, at his end, and Oscar had always known it.

It doesn’t matter where the body goes, after all. Oscar knew that as well as Zolf does.

Which makes this entire ritual even more ridiculous. 

He still does it though. Because he’s nothing if not himself.

Zolf lets out a slight grunt of pain as he bends down to lower the flowers on the green grass of Oscar’s grave, then leans heavily on his cane.

“Not much has happened since last year,” he says. “Time’s slowing down for us, eh? Or maybe I’m just not paying as much attention as I used to.” He takes a breath, lets it out. “Hamid’s youngest has just started showing signs of being another sorcerer, so we’ve got more dragons on the horizon. Not that Hamid’s spending a lot of time doing that. Not any more any way. I think it reminds him of… well it reminds him of how there’s only the three of us left now. Likely to be only him and Cel, soon enough.” He chuckles. “I’m not exactly in a hurry to shuffle off, and he’s still hurting over Azu, even though it’s been nearly ten years, so I’ve told him I’ll do my best to stick around at least a little while longer. Helps that I don’t have to face off against lightning storms any more, I guess. It’s just gonna be time that does me, just like it did you.”

A gentle spring breeze ruffles Zolf’s hair, thinning now on top although his beard is still thick and full. He feels it like a caress on his skin, like the echo of a long fingered hand, like the soft sigh of a breath before a gentle press of lips. He takes a deep breath, blinking away moisture. “Dottie’s latest play got worse reviews than yours ever did, so I guess you’ll be pleased about that. She takes bad reviews about as well as you. I mean, you know I’m no connoisseur of literature but I didn’t see what was wrong with it, myself. Could have done with a bit more romance, I guess. You could probably judge better.”

He steps towards the stone, reaches out a hand and lays it on the rough surface. There isn’t really anything left to say, but he doesn’t feel ready to leave yet. He contemplates sitting in the soft grass and enjoying the warmth of the spring sun for an hour or two, but Irish weather is unpredictable at the best of times, and getting himself down to sitting is more trouble than it’s worth, most days. If nothing else, at this point each time he lies or sits down he’s always conscious that it might be the last. Poetic and romantic as it would be to die on Oscar’s grave (and wouldn’t the bugger laugh about it if he did) he doesn’t want the poor priestess to have to deal with a corpse on her off day. 

Instead he stands for a few more minutes, the stone under his hand warm from the sunshine, the breeze still toying with his hair and playing over his skin, before he brushes a thumb across its top, and gives a gentle nod.

“I’ll see you next year, love,” he says, gathering his cane. “Sleep well.”


	2. Approaching an End

“Where’s my damned notebook?” Oscar is patting himself down, not having moved from his chair (he doesn’t much, not these days, aside from being helped to it and from it for meal times, bath times, and bed).

“‘Sright in front of you, you great pillock,” Zolf says as he passes, tapping it with one finger. It’s tucked under a fold of Oscar’s voluminous dressing gown, where Oscar had stuffed it when Zolf brought him tea an hour ago. The dressing gown is enormous - made of the best quality wool and embroidered with silk, the collar trimmed with expensive fur. It was a gift from Hamid, and Oscar adores it. Zolf is almost certain there are enchantments stitched into its lining, because when he wears it Oscar never complains of the autumn chill reaching his bones. He’s grateful to Hamid for the gift. As much as Oscar is.

Zolf doesn’t think about how much smaller he looks in it, these days, his once tall frame hunched and frail.

“You going to write something scathing?”

Wilde grins, pushing his glasses up his nose as he opens the book and chews at his pencil. He never used to do that when he thought anyone was looking, just like he never used to want Zolf to see him in his glasses, but there has been a gentle… relaxation about him, these last few years. 

Zolf still feels that surge of warmth at Oscar’s trust. But he also knows that there are things about Oscar that are falling away, and they’re falling away for a reason. He makes no public appearances and poems and articles are rare. Most afternoons he snoozes by the fire.

Mornings though, he’s still sharp and combative and Zolf often has trouble keeping up. It’s not as though Zolf is in the flush of youth, even for a dwarf he’s getting on, although…

Although…

He should be relieved that his afternoons are mostly quiet contemplation and reading, accompanied by Oscar’s gentle snores.

He is. Mostly.

“Poetry tonight, my love,” Oscar says, and indeed, his pencil is flying across the paper more rapidly than it has done for ages. Zolf knows better than to interrupt when he’s in the flow and collects Oscar’s latest teacup from the table next to his chair and takes it to the kitchen. He rubs his thigh, absently, the cold air is seeping into the join between magical metal and non magical flesh, and he’s having to use his cane a lot more these days if he doesn’t want to be awake half the night with an ache in his knees. Oscar’s teacup is nearly full - he forgets to finish it when it’s hot and complains when it’s too cold. Zolf absently looks into it for a few seconds, standing at the sink, wondering why he’s so melancholy tonight, but not too hard because dwelling on the reasons won’t make the problems go away.

And they’re not problems. Not really. It’s just that they’re approaching an end. It’s one they’ve seen coming from a long way away, one they talked about twenty years ago, thirty… no forty, when all of this began. 

Gods. 

Zolf carefully washes the teacup and puts it back on the rack, then goes back out into the sitting room, to find Oscar asleep again, pen only loosely held in fingers that are still slim and elegant, despite the knots and wrinkles of age. There are words on the page of the notebook, looping and large - Oscar’s hand has become that way, since his sight started to fade, although the letters are still perfectly formed and easy to read. He eases the notebook out from under Oscar’s fingers, but doesn’t read what’s written. The unspoken agreement between them will hold fast. Oscar shares when he is ready, and not before.

He puts the notebook and the pen within easy reach of the chair, takes a moment to run his fingers through the white hair at Oscar’s temple, leaning down to press a kiss to his brow. Oscar’s lips curve in a smile and he murmurs something, but doesn’t wake. In an hour or so Zolf will prod him into coming up to bed, and he looks forward to the grumbles he’ll inevitably get when that time comes.

Now, though, he’ll read, and he’ll listen to the crackle of the fire.

They are approaching an end, but they knew that. And when that end comes, Zolf will go past it and towards one of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write some fluff today. Guess that didn't happen. Cheers for making myself cry instead.


End file.
